


oh, what a world

by renlybardatheon (aheartcalledhome)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Hockey, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Minor Sansa Stark/Margaery Tyrell, Minor Theon Greyjoy/Robb Stark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:15:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26027080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aheartcalledhome/pseuds/renlybardatheon
Summary: When Hot Pie says you look like a power couple, he’s usually right. Westeros Women’s Hockey League legend Arya Stark of the Winterfell Direwolves gives rising men’s hockey star Gendry Waters a chance. Like his slapshot, Gendry doesn’t disappoint.
Relationships: Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Catelyn Stark/Ned Stark, Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 19
Kudos: 95





	1. Arya I

**Author's Note:**

> hey everybody!
> 
> i've been working on this for a few weeks and figured hey, what better day to post this than today, when folks will figure out which jaime x brienne exchange fic that i wrote!
> 
> i don't think there'll be a regular update schedule for this fic, as i'm staring down the barrel of school starting very soon, but think of this as me dipping my toes back into game of thrones so i can get back into a few of the universes i've set up to play in. most of them are jxb, but here i am, trying new things!
> 
> [here's the playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1puync6BWU8y5s32NkHHOw?si=aicPH9LATVG5NQeR1Ygvwg)
> 
> hope you all like it!
> 
> xoxo,  
> gossip girl

“If we’re going to do this, we’re going to do this right,” Robb says solemnly.

There’s a reason everyone unanimously voted him to be Master of Ceremony. It just wouldn’t feel right if anyone other than Robb were in charge. Their announcer voices wouldn’t be as funny, their jokes wouldn’t be as meaningful, and it would make it much harder to laugh at Robb were he to actually compete with the rest of them, let alone win. From the moment anyone could remember, Robb had been not just a natural leader, but the natural leader -- of his siblings, of his friends, of his teams in every sport.

As much and as hard as Theon, Jon, and sometimes Sansa had fought for the title at times, they hadn’t stood a chance against Robb and his track record of consistent excellence. Especially when it came to Hotdogpocalypse.

“The rules are the same as they are every year. Everyone’s chosen their second, in case of moral, emotional, physical, or psychological death.” Robb spreads his hands out in front of him, as if directing a movie. The best part about letting him take center stage is that he always finds a way to look utterly ridiculous. “If your second feels the need to tap out, you are officially in disgrace. If you’re the first team to tap out, you assume responsibility for the winning team’s chores for the next month.”

Robb rubs his hands together as he takes a second to survey them all with a dead stare that’s all too reminiscent of his father.

It’s a good thing they’ve locked the dogs away, because Grey Wind would be slobbering all over his ratty sandals at that small gesture, looking for a morsel of human food that Robb must be holding, one that might find its way into his mouth if he simply looked desolate enough. Summer and Shaggydog would be lying in the widest, warmest patch of sun, belly up, while Nymeria and Lady nipped at each other’s flanks and growled at each other in the practiced manner of old rivals putting on a show. Instead, the dogs were wreaking havoc on Ned and Catelyn Stark’s usually immaculate living room while their owners shot death glares at each other around a cheap folding table stacked high with plates of questionably cooked hot dogs.

“So we’ve got Theon and Jon, who have named themselves… Fuck Robb Stark. Okay, fine. Good laugh. Sansa and Jeyne, who’ve named themselves… Okay, I don’t think I should read that aloud, and I also think that was a feminism test? I can’t say that, right?” Sansa shrugs, bringing her right ankle up to rest on her left knee with a flourish. Beside her, Jeyne grins, leaning in to whisper in Sansa’s ear. “Arya and Rickon have named themselves after that Juggalo band, and Bran and Meera are calling themselves the Three Eyed Raven. What kind of name is that?”

“I read it in a book somewhere.” Bran shrugs. “It sounded cool.”

“I’m really sorry, Robb. Ygritte couldn’t get the day off.” Jon looks dejected, like he’s just been punched in the stomach, every inch the little boy that had hovered at Robb’s elbow all throughout their childhood. Aunt Lyanna had always tried her level best to bully the bashfulness out of him, but Jon has always been quick to apologize and forgive, and even quicker to forget. “Then I had to take on Theon, because I didn’t have a partner, and I did want to play, and--”

“Take on me?” Theon rolls his eyes. “Oh, please, I let you onto my team.”

“And who were you going to team up with, if not me?” Jon challenges. “The sea wasn’t exactly full of fishes for you, Greyjoy.”

“All you need is one bite on the line, Stark.” Theon winks. “If it’s stupid enough, you can hook any fish with carefully placed bait.”

“Are you done yet?” Arya pulls a sweatband out of the pocket of her joggers to hold her hair back. With a conspiratorial grin, Rickon slips on a matching one. “We’ve got winning to do.”

“Winning?” Sansa scoffs.

“Bold words from the mouth of babes.” Jeyne sighs, shaking her head. “Don’t be too cruel when we destroy them, Sansa. They don’t know what they’re doing.”

“When you destroy them?” Theon’s face turns a distressing shade of mauve. “When we destroy them, more like. Tell them, Stark.”

“I ate lunch before coming here,” Jon says, looking anywhere but at Theon.

“Subterfuge,” Arya says, fairly impressed. Jon’s attempts to stick it to Theon were usually far more obvious. “Brilliant. Someone’s got to tell Ygritte about this. You’re all grown up now.”

“Can you tell her to stop calling my mother Coach while you do that?” Jon shudders. “I’m pretty sure Mum’s sick of it.”

“Around here, we call her Aunt Lyanna on the weekends.” Robb laughs. “But she’s only Coach to Arya and Ygritte, and Ygritte found a way out of competing. So, Arya, what’s your plan?”

“To win.” Arya bares her teeth as Nymeria might, if threatened. “Because there’s nothing Coach loves more than a win.”

* * *

Growing up as a Stark was far more difficult than it needed to be, and that was despite Arya choosing the path of least resistance.

The second she could walk, her father had her following him around their backyard rink on coltish legs, learning how to skate. She stumbled and fell, but he taught her to always get back up again, to always push past the limits if victory was in her sights. Ned Stark was known for his delicate balance of speed and creativity, a wildness that only the blood of the North could breed waiting behind a hair trigger, and he taught all the Stark children to embrace that wildness when it served them well, but never in violence.

For all Robb and Jon had the advantage of years of her father’s mentorship before she came along, Arya knew her father had always trusted that she would be the one to inherit his legacy. Arya was the one to play the blue line as her father had, the one to inherit the steadiness of his presence, the sureness of his stride, the split second smirk that only spelled doom for anyone who saw it.

It was no surprise to anyone who knew her when she inherited Robb and Jon’s old skates in Sansa’s place, and when those skates didn’t make it to Rickon, everyone knew it was because they had been worn to pieces.

All three of them had gone professional the second they were old enough. “Against all odds”, Catelyn Stark had said, despite there not being any odds against them. How could there be, with Arya and Robb’s father a hometown hero in Winterfell, and Jon’s mother coaching the Direwolves? Who could say no to Robb Stark, blood of the Blackfish and the Starks? Who could say no to Jon Stark, the boy with the quickest mind and hands in the league?

Who could say no to Arya Stark, the best of Ned Stark but with a vicious streak that her all too honorable father could never have dreamed of?

His critics had always complained of his strict moral code, his unwillingness to rise to the occasion when it counted. Robert Baratheon had always done that, the impulsive hothead to Ned Stark’s overcautious craven. Robert Baratheon had always thrown down his gloves before he had any real reason to and then Ned Stark would clean up the mess, groaning all the while at Robert for his impetuousness, but only when pushed. His reputation had plagued him for all of his career, and the staggering number of Best Sportsmanlike Conduct awards that lined the trophy case in his study had never bought him true respect, among his peers and the public.

From the second Winterfell had called her name at the draft, Arya had been chomping at the bit to get her way, impossible to settle and even more impossible to contain, her Aunt Lyanna’s temper and tenacity reborn. Every single bit of Ned Stark’s consistency and prized work ethic combined with incomparable skill Lyanna Stark had shown during her career. Everything the papers had said Aunt Lyanna could’ve been, if she hadn’t taken time off to have Jon and protected him and his privacy with such fierceness upon returning that it ran her off Winterfell’s roster. She hated the comparison, mostly because it made having Aunt Lyanna as a coach even more awkward somehow, but it struck fear into the hearts of her older competitors, and that was something Arya wouldn’t pass up for anything.

Aunt Lyanna had always winked at Arya for her father not to notice when he discouraged the boys from fighting unless it was in defense of a teammate’s honor, and she’d carried that with her through every team she’d been placed on. Maybe fighting wasn’t exactly legal or encouraged, but she’d found other ways to let opponents know their bad behavior wasn’t welcome, especially when it targeted one of her teammates.

She knew it was quite early to be making claims to stardom, even if others were perfectly happy to do it for her. It came with the name and the game. She was a Stark who’d chosen to play hockey, instead of getting an education, like Sansa and Bran.

What else should she have expected?

* * *

Arya feels at home on the ice. Something about the scrape of her skate blades, about the echo of her stick blade tapping against the ice makes her feel settled, feel calmer than she has any right to. The particular tilt and shift of the whole world as she pushes off, the way her vision narrows to the goal, blocking off potential paths the puck could take to the back of the net. She can feel the bodies moving around her before she sees them, can dodge and evade like a master. She feels graceful, feels like she is cutting through the world on the edge of a knife blade.

It feels brutally vicious in the best way.

She skates backwards and forwards, runs her way through her drills with purpose, and smiles cheekily at Aunt Lyanna whenever she pushes the limits a little too hard. She has loved testing her limits since she was too young to be held responsible for her actions, hasn’t let go of the rush of overturning someone’s judgment. During a scrimmage, she and Ygritte cycle the puck for a few minutes before she spots a lane and breaks free, leaving her stick open just so, so Ygritte can hit her with a pass right on the tape.

Arya shoots and she scores. There’s no other option. There never has been -- not when she was three and trying to push past Robb and Jon, and not now, when she’s carving out a piece of history for herself in a league of her own.

Ygritte grins at her when they regroup at the blue line and Arya slaps her on the ass with her stick blade, grinning like a wolf all the while.

* * *

Arya is freshly showered and smelling like Jon’s Old Spice body wash, laying on Sansa’s bed with her head falling over the edge, when the woman of the hour walks in, mouth full of lemon cake and hands sticky with sugar.

She wonders what Sansa’s hoity toity academic colleagues would think of the Sansa she sees at home, in Winterfell -- what they would think of this Sansa, flyaway hairs peeling their way out of her haphazard braid, secreting treats out of the kitchen, so utterly chaotic in her simplicity. They probably haven’t seen her like this, only the buttoned up, strict, uptight version of herself she projects when she is around them, the village girl turned rising academic star. The Sansa Arya is seeing now, albeit upside down, clad in a pair of Robb’s old sweatpants and a floral muscle tank she’s obviously stolen from Arya’s closet.

Sansa turns around and Arya sits upright with a start, eyes wide as dinner plates. “Sansa.” She says measuredly, trying to pretend she was capable of sounding calm. “Dunno if you’ve noticed, but your shirt says Tyrell on the back.”

“Does it?” Sansa sucks one of her fingers clean, then shrugs. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“You have to tell me these things!” Arya exclaims, throwing her head back with a groan. “I can’t just not know you’re fraternizing with the enemy.”

“Fraternizing?” Sansa pinches the bridge of her nose in exasperation. “Oldtown is hardly a rival of ours. At least I’m not dating a Reaver.”

“That’s still bad! Still bad! I’m telling!” Arya decides to hazard a bounce on Sansa’s bed, because it’s not as if things could get worse, and relishes the sheer venom in Sansa’s eyes when she musses up her perfectly made bed. “You’re wearing her shirt, Sansa! That’s not just a crush!”

“The Roses are my hometown team now.” Sansa argues weakly. “And it’s not as if you haven’t stared at Margaery Tyrell. I appreciate a woman who’s good at what she does.”

“I don’t think I stare at her like you do, Sansa.” Arya laughs raucously. “I think that’s just you. And all those people in her Twitter replies.”

“I’m not a Twitter stan!” Sansa grimaces. “She gave me this.” She twists the hem between her fingers nervously. “That’s different.”

“She gave it to you! Traitor! I’m telling Dad!” Arya throws one of Sansa’s pillows at her, and it hits her hard in the chest, Sansa’s face going red with rage. “Did you go on a date, Sans? Was it good? Did she kiss you good night?”

Arya hops off the bed as quickly as she can, assessing the room for any positions that will give her leverage. She is not truly afraid of Sansa (not that she shouldn’t be), and Sansa isn’t really mad. That’s the advantage of being a few years removed from living together -- conflict doesn’t stretch out the way it used to, invading every moment of every day. Arya will happily settle for pushing each other too hard a few times a year and licking her wounds alone rather than the constant struggle of trying to find a happy middle ground between them.

Neither of them had understood each other very well as children, but even less so once Sansa had dialed down on ballet, disappearing into her books and reappearing with thoughts about the War of Ninepenny Kings or Gerion Lannister’s disappearance in High Valyria that would make even the most seasoned conspiracy theorists blush. Their mother had always told them they were strikingly different people, that seeking to understand each other would only ever end in disappointment, so they should seek to support each other unquestionably instead. All that had done was fan the flames of age old resentments, both sisters playing a game of relationship Jenga that was bound to end in mess and tears, but now, things seemed almost manageable.

Arya could make fun of Sansa without her bursting into tears and running for their parents at the first opportunity. Sansa could push back against her without it turning Arya apoplectic. They almost liked each other. They weren’t friends, because sisters who are friends are a different breed, but they could stand each other, could tolerate each other, and could even enjoy each other in a pinch.

“There was a date.” Sansa admits, chin pointed high, and Arya creeps a little closer. She may not understand Sansa and her brand of flowery, fairy tale magic, but she does love knowing things others don’t. “She took me out to dinner and was a perfect lady the whole time. She didn’t ask me for inside information on any Direwolves tactics and held my hand the whole time, which made it a little inconvenient to eat, but it was fine. She seemed interested in my work actually, even offered to read my thesis if I needed another set of eyes on it. And she kissed me good night at the end, so.” Sansa shrugs, trying to seem nonchalant. “I won’t hear anything against her on that account. Her skating stride, however…”

“That’s the sister I know and love.” Arya whoops with glee. “C’mon, talk some more shit. Please!”

“She asked me who my favorite hockey player was at the end of the night--” Sansa pauses to let laughter overcome her, sweeping her under like a riptide for a few minutes. “And I told her it was you.” She seems more embarrassed that Arya knows she respects her than of the fact that she potentially ruined a date by bringing up her sister. “And she said she respects my honesty and that she’ll try to change my mind.”

“So you’ve got a second date waiting for you in Oldtown, huh?” Arya grins.

“A fifth.” Sansa corrects quietly.

“A fifth date? You’re practically married!” Arya cackles. “I can’t wait to tell on you now.”

“You won’t though, right?” Sansa looks a little pale, and Arya shakes her head, frowning. “I know you’re just making fun of me, I just… I had to check.”

“Yeah, I know.” Arya sighs. “I don’t blame you. Tell them when you’re ready. You know how Mum and Dad get about relationships.”

When Robb and Theon had come out, their parents had turned the whole house into a rainbow themed funhouse in an attempt to appear supportive. By the time Sansa had come out, they’d been cowed into submission by Robb and Theon’s unique combination of verbal protests and property destruction, but that didn’t mean they were going to be normal about it in the least.

“I know. I don’t want them to find out until I’m sure Margaery is serious.” Sansa says.

“Sounds like you are.” Arya closes the space between them to shove at Sansa’s shoulder. “If you’re just waiting on her.”

“Yeah.” Sansa smiles. “I might be. Got a problem?”

“Nope.” Arya initiates a hug, a rare treat. Sansa relaxes into it with a pleased sigh. “I’m happy if you’re happy.”

* * *

“So how is Sansa?” Catelyn Stark asks, as they’re paused at a red light. Arya groans, curling up further in the front seat. Her seatbelt holds her back from achieving true comfort, but nothing about this situation is comfortable.

It’s always felt like their parents use them to get information on each other. Sansa is expected to tell on Arya and Arya on Sansa, and their parents have been reaping the benefits of their contentiousness for years. There’s a transparency to the digging and prodding that bothers Arya now that she’s past her teenage years, especially when Catelyn does it. Their father’s got the decency to admit openly that five children, all with wildly different interests, are far too many to keep up with and any confusion between his kids’ lives is not personal. Their mother takes the overly sentimental route more often that not, which has never sat well with Arya.

Maybe she’s just her father’s daughter (or more accurately, Aunt Lyanna’s niece), but her mother’s well intentioned needling has always felt like an apology after the fact, not an attempt to help. Maybe because, in her case, it always has been. Catelyn has always sought to make Arya into something she can understand, something she can appreciate, rather than accepting her as she is. The two of them have never been close in the same way Arya has been with her father and her aunt. Catelyn was never interested in sports, let alone hockey, and tolerated her husband’s career at the very best, while Arya delighted in watching grainy recordings of games that Ned had played long before she was born. When she laced up her skates for the first time, Catelyn complained for months.

“She’s fine.” Arya shrugs. “Keeping busy, you know? Forging the links of her chain or whatever.” She scowls at the passing scenery. “If you want to know about her, you can ask her, you know? Sansa’s always happy to talk about herself.”

“I know. There are just some things a girl won’t tell her mother, and I just want to make sure she’s safe.” Catelyn’s smile is strained as she glances in the rearview mirror. “I care about both of you, you know. Even if you don’t see it.”

It’s never been a secret in the Stark family that Catelyn had never planned to be a hockey player’s wife, that she resented how she’d been turned into an ornament on the sidelines of her husband’s career, her dreams set aside in favor of raising their children. As much as she thinks she’s kept it well under wraps, Arya and her siblings have always been well aware that their mother had never expected this life for herself. Sansa and Robb natter on and on about how it’s a testament to the love between their parents that their marriage has worked so well despite everything, but Arya thinks it’s stubbornness. Arya thinks it is gritty, grimy stubbornness, because there is no way all of them had turned out as well adjusted as they have if Catelyn wasn’t clinging to Ned with fire burning hot enough in her heart to melt the ice of the North.

“I do see it.” Arya nods. “And Sansa does too. There’s just some stuff she doesn’t want to talk to you about, like you said.”

“Yes, well--”

“Yes, well, what?” Arya sits up straighter as they turn onto their street, fumbling with the seatbelt buckle like she intends to launch herself out the window in order to get home faster. “She’s fine. I promise. That’s what’s important.”

Catelyn nods slowly as they pull into the driveway. “You’re right.” She smiles weakly, as she parks the car. “All I want is for both of you to be happy.”


	2. Gendry I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We meet Gendry Baratheon, star forward of the King's Landing Goldcloaks and his weird, annoying coach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I realized, like months after I posted the first chapter, that I forgot to mark this as a multichapter work (credit goes to Wyneb_Ceffyl_Arya for pointing it out in a comment)! Sorry everybody! Whoops! Hopefully there's more coming from this universe very, very soon -- I've already started working on Gendry II, which feels counter productive, because Arya II should come first. Oops! 
> 
> Hopefully I see you in January with another update before school gets going again!
> 
> Best,  
> S

Gendry wakes to sunlight pouring through his window, each ray striking his eyes with all the unbridled ferocity of a cat’s claws, and groans as he rolls back and forth across his mattress, desperately clinging to the last dregs of sleep. They leave him faster than a butterfly kiss and he lets out a series of snuffling whimpers as he forces himself to sit up despite his throbbing head. He needs to stop letting his teammates drag him out after games. As much as he enjoys feeling like one of the boys and being embraced by his teammates, he does not enjoy the recovery period, emotional or physical.

His phone buzzes beside his head and he grabs for it clumsily, wrinkling his nose in disgust as the infernal buzzing continues, sending shockwaves of sensation crawling up his arm toward his chest. He leans in close to the screen, eyes watering as he squints to try and read the too small letters, but can’t make sense of any of the thousand pieces of information pouring in. Not that he can, even while sober. Despite all of Jon Arryn’s dogged enthusiasm, the letters still do their gymnastics routines every time Gendry tries to pin them down long enough to make sense of the words they spell. His teammates should know better than to text him information, at this point, but he’ll take their careless mistakes over intentional derision any day.

“I miss wanting to be a blacksmith.” He mutters, then tosses the phone underneath a pillow before rolling onto his stomach. “Didn’t have to fucking answer my phone to be a blacksmith.” 

Within seconds, he’s snoring again, without a care in the world. The texts can wait. He has all the time in the world, now.

* * *

When Gendry needs to clear his head, he goes to Flea Bottom’s run down ice rink to skate in circles. He’s been told it’s unbecoming, from a Goldcloak, but he doesn’t care about becoming anything but what he already is. Sometimes, he just wants to go home to the place that raised him, to the shitty excuse for ice in a shitty excuse for a recreation center with bats and pigeons in the rafters. He rents an hour or two of ice time, overpays by so much that they’ve started refusing his money every so often, and runs the drills that caught Jon Arryn’s eye so many years ago. 

He spends the first half hour skating suicides until his head feels light and fuzzy, then moves on to taking shots at an empty net. He could’ve begged one of the goalies to come along with him, but this is his home, his rink, his place to decompress. He isn’t a fan of sharing Flea Bottom -- he’ll gladly share everything else, but this was his own from the beginning. This rink, these stands, the half-rotten sticks that the kids carry around like swords made him a star. Not Jon Arryn’s words, not the Goldcloaks’ training, not the money. 

The drive to be excellent was born here, instilled by a line of coaches that volunteered for the love of the game in the scraps of free time their jobs left them. His slapshot was born here, after thousands of hours of practice that he worked all sorts of odd jobs to afford. His speed was born here, on and off the ice, racing around the rink the same way he ran headlong through the streets, back when he was a target for the pickpockets and the bullies and the shop owners who cared about punishing little thieves with hungry stomachs.

He is sweating like a pig when he comes off the ice, hair plastered to his head and cheeks red as cherries, when he notices a crowd of children waiting in the stands, wide eyed and whispering to each other like he is one of the Seven become human. He remembers what it was like to be one of those children, is far too close to it for his own comfort whenever he sees players from other teams. He remembers wanting desperately to see those stars but knowing they’d never dare come to Flea Bottom, wouldn’t even think of setting foot in this rink.

“Do you want an autograph?” He calls out, and the kids let out a surprised cheer before scrambling over. “I’ve got a pen in the locker room.” 

He’d made up his signature that first night at Jaime Lannister’s house, tucked away in a guest room that felt far too fancy for him. Arryn had just dropped him off, and Jaime and Brienne were far too friendly, and he’d sat on the perfectly made covers, stomach roiling, and practiced signing his name over and over again. He’d never been much good with his letters, but he knew what his name looked like and scribbled out something close enough.

He signs his name again and again now, on something special for each kid, and smiles all the while, because he knows what it means. He knows what a dearly held treasure it will be for each one of them. He knows how much he would have protected something signed, how viciously he would have defended it from everyone who strove to steal that joy from him. 

“They say you grew up here.” One of the kids, a waifish thing with the brownest eyes Gendry’s ever seen, looks up at him expectantly. “That true?”

“Yeah, I was apprenticing with Tobho Mott on the Street of Steel to pay for my gear right before I left, but my mum worked at, uh, the Silver Spoon on Gin Alley. So I did most of my growing up here.” Something bright and wild flashed in the child’s eyes at the sound of a familiar name. Gendry, if pressed, might have even called it hope. “They’ll tell you you can’t become a hockey player on bowls of brown, but look at me. I did it.” He pats the child’s back as gently as he can, and receives a smile for his trouble. “It’s nice to meet you. What’s your name?”

“Dorrick Waters.” The kid grins up at him. “You think Mott’s taking on any new apprentices?” He flexes his arms experimentally, not for show, but as if to prove something to himself. “I want to play, but… money’s tight around the house and I’m not one to ask for much…”

“I can put in a good word for you,” Gendry says, typing a quick note into his phone. It’s been too long since he called Tobho anyhow. “Have you been to the shop before?” When Dorrick nods, his lank blond hair flopping into his eyes, Gendry smiles. “I’ll call him tonight. Hopefully I’ll see you out on the ice soon, Dorrick.” 

Gendry waves to the kids before jogging off to the showers, but he can still see the joy and admiration in Dorrick’s face hours later, as if it had been carved into the back of his eyelids, every time he closes his eyes.

* * *

The Hall of Heroes wraps around the second floor of Blackwater Bay Stadium, walls cluttered with framed portraits of record-breaking hockey players of bygone eras, all acclaimed beyond anything Gendry can imagine. He walks the length of it three times, back and forth and back again, every single game day, greeting every ghost of the past like an old friend. Ammett Darklyn of Duskendale, Terren Rosby, Donovar Velaryon of Driftmark, and Barristan Selmy had all been long retired by the time Gendry was old enough to root for the Goldcloaks, but the lists of accomplishments they’d left behind were enough to turn any child’s heart to hoping and dreaming that they could do the same. He likes to linger by the portraits that were hung long before he was even a messy hypothetical in his father’s mind, mostly because it will delay having to confront his father’s face. It will delay having to acknowledge that he is part of his father’s legacy as long as he plays for the Goldcloaks, who Robert Baratheon put back on the map after years of mediocrity. 

He passes Kevan Kettleblack, who still holds the record for most games won by a Goldcloaks goalie years after his death, and his breath catches in his chest as Robert Baratheon’s smile hits him like a punch. It is a terrifying thing to grow up in the shadow of a father you don’t know, made even more terrifying by the knowledge that he knows and still wants nothing to do with you. Gendry’s name has been on too many newspapers, too many broadcasts, too many awards, for Robert Baratheon to not have taken even one look at his face and thought wow, doesn’t he look like me?

Robert Baratheon, age twenty, grins at Gendry from his frame like he’s just had his cake and eaten it too, because he has. A few years after this portrait was taken, he would cheat on his pregnant wife at a tavern in Flea Bottom, and kickstart his marriage’s dark and arduous descent into hell. Of course, it was dying before then, but Gendry had never suffered any illusions about his birth and subsequent rise to stardom having nothing to do with the extremely public way Robert and Cersei’s divorce had played out. He was more surprised that Myrcella and Tommen held no grudges against him, despite the fact that the tabloids were fond of listing his name among the many sins of his father. 

Jon Arryn doesn’t have a portrait, having spent his playing career with Gulltown and only worked for the Goldcloaks as a scout, but Gendry wishes he would. Jon Arryn had done so much for him. He’d set Gendry up with an apartment by the River Gate, given him advice about what to do with his money and how to survive in the league. Gendry had never expected such kindness, especially after Jon Arryn had spotted him doing puck protection drills at the rink in Flea Bottom, but Jon had given and given, and passed Gendry along to Jaime Lannister for further instruction. 

Coach Jaime had been kind enough to let Gendry move in with him and his wife, and though Gendry still worries he was an imposition while he lived there, Coach Jaime still refuses to allow him to spiral about it for more than a few seconds. He and Jon Arryn were closer to fathers than Robert Baratheon could ever be. Even if he reached out now, with more apologies than Gendry could count, and begged for Gendry’s forgiveness, he would still choose Jon Arryn and Jaime Lannister any day. 

“Thinking big thoughts, Waters?” Coach Jaime’s voice snaps Gendry out of his thoughts immediately. “The portrait again, huh?”

“Yeah, well.” Gendry has always felt odd talking to Coach Jaime about Robert, given that his twin sister was married to him, but Coach Jaime’s been trying to prompt him into it forever. “It tends to get me.”

“Yeah.” Jaime sighs. “Me too, but not the same way.” He shakes his head. “Come on then, you’ve spent enough time here. Let’s get you fed.”

“You know you don’t have to ‘get me fed’, right?” Gendry says.

“You’re a child.” Jaime rolls his eyes before throwing an arm around Gendry’s shoulders. “Plus, Brienne would kill me if I didn’t aggressively parent you in her place.”

“You’re hardly old enough to be my parents, even if Brienne had me in, what, middle school?” Gendry scoffed. “More like annoying older siblings.”

“We’ll take whatever we can get.” Jaime laughs. “And either way, as your coach, I’m legally responsible for making sure you get fed.”

“That’s not what legal responsibility means!” Gendry gives up the ghost, joining in the laughter. “See, things like this are why you get in trouble with the press all the time.”

“Trouble?” Jaime says innocently. “I just give them more work to do. You know, keeping the great art of journalism alive and whatnot.”

“Brienne’s right, you’re incorrigible.” Gendry shakes his head, looking up to the heavens in exasperation. “And you were worse before her?”

“A thousand, million times worse.” Jaime says. “Worse than Tyrion, on occasion.”

“Good thing I never met you when I was a kid.” Gendry says. “I’d have died rather than lived with you then.”

“Well, it never came to that, so we’re all lucky ducks.” Jaime grins. “Come on. Let’s get out of here. You’ve done enough moping for one day.”

“For my whole life, more like.” Gendry quips. “Yeah. Let’s go home.”

“Then let’s walk.” Jaime Lannister says as they exit the stadium. 

Gendry knows for a fact Jaime had driven to work today -- he’d walked into the locker room complaining about traffic and school dropoff lines -- but here he was, walking toward his house with Gendry at his side. Wasn’t he afraid about his car being stolen? It wasn’t as if the stadium was in a bad neighborhood, nor did people in “bad” neighborhoods deserve to be judged for the intended functioning of the systems that kept them down and out. 

“Warrior above, I can see you thinking even with my ancient eyes. I’m trying to spend time with you, Blacksmith. Nothing more complicated than that. Please stop worrying.” He throws an arm around Gendry’s shoulders and Gendry leans into him. “I know the feeling, goddamn.”

“Do you ever think about what you wanted to be? Before hockey?” Gendry asks hesitantly.

“Honestly, I don’t think I wanted to be anything else. Not because I wanted this, but because I didn’t know I could want anything else.” Jaime sighs. “And then, well, I had to find something else, didn’t I?” He holds up his right hand, the ugly scar across the wrist from a skate blade hitting skin instead of ice still prominent, a thick, red, raised line slashed across his skin all these years later. 

Gendry had watched it happen on a grainy, staticky television in his neighbor’s apartment, on one of the nights his mother had decided disappearing was preferable to parenting. He remembers the flavor of Cup Noodles that he was eating when Jaime was knocked to the ground by his own teammate and the seconds of trepidation when everyone knew what was about to happen before Locke Bolton’s skate blade came down on his wrist. Everyone in King’s Landing had been on tenterhooks for days, worried that Jaime would die, but he had come roaring back like the Lannister everyone knew him to be. 

His legendary shot had never been the same afterward, and a few seasons later, he’d decided to retire gracefully rather than make a fool of himself hanging onto the memory of greatness lost long ago. Instead of the peace he’d sought all his life, his former team had come calling, and he’d met his wife and started along the path to his dream coaching job all in one day.

“I wonder if it would’ve been easier. To be a blacksmith.” Gendry mumbles. “Less trouble. Less eyes on me. Less pressure.”

Jaime’s eyes flash -- he catches everything somehow -- but he keeps his silence, curiosity clear in his expression. It’s one of his qualities that Gendry likes the best. Even if he’s been entrenched in the boring day to day of coaching and management for years now, Jaime still thinks like a man used to reacting to anything that came his way. Gendry can see him cycling the puck of their conversion now, guiding it toward the net even now, with all the skill he had possessed before Locke’s skate had hit skin instead of ice.

“Might’ve been.” Jaime shrugs nonchalantly. “But would it have been enough for you?”

“What?” Gendry asks, shocked.

“Would it have been enough for you?” Jaime repeats, as the businesses around the stadium give way to quaint, cookie cutter family homes with wide bay windows, painted different pastel colors. Houses Gendry had dreamed of living in, with a perfect paper cutout family that would love him with all their hearts. “Do you think you would’ve been happy giving hockey up to work full time? If you had to?”

“I don’t know.” Gendry frowns. “I don’t think… I don’t think I could say that. I think I’d miss it. Wouldn’t be able to sell any of my equipment for rent, if I had to.” He laughs mirthlessly. “And I guess I’d have to. Not much business for blacksmiths these days, especially ones without a college degree.”

“That’s a start.” Jaime smiles softly. “We’ll help you with the rest.” 

They stop in front of a pastel blue house with bright chalk drawings covering every inch of the driveway, each one signed in the messy backwards letters of little children learning to write their names. Brienne’s car is parked on top of a particularly interesting drawing of an octopus that definitely has at least ten tentacles -- the women’s side must have not started practice for the day -- and a bucket of chalk has been left out right behind the back wheel, ready to be crushed.

“Oh.” Jaime says proudly, picking the bucket up by the plastic handle. “They’ve got an ocean theme going, look at that.” 

Jaime’s pride when he speaks of his children always makes Gendry feel warm and fuzzy inside. He doesn’t have to wonder whether Robert Baratheon ever spoke of him with that kind of chest bursting emotion, because he knows he didn’t. He doesn’t have to wonder whether his mother did, because he remembers every single time it happened, few and far between. But then Jaime turns to him and says “Gendry, did you show Alysanne how to draw that whale? Because it looks too familiar”, with that exact same smile on his face, and this time, Gendry knows it’s just for him.

**Author's Note:**

> come hang with me on twitter at [@aheartcalldhome](https://www.twitter.com/aheartcalldhome) if you wanna talk public health, game of thrones, or fun memes, or if you're down to make a new friend!


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